


i don't know where to put my hands

by cosmicpoet



Category: Persona 5
Genre: M/M, Slow Dancing, Smoking, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, postgame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-22 05:30:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20868971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmicpoet/pseuds/cosmicpoet
Summary: Goro and Akira are both coping.





	i don't know where to put my hands

Goro keeps a calendar. It’s the first thing he bought after he woke up from his coma, dazed and confused and sickeningly _reeling _from the fact that he didn’t die in the engine room; he needs something to cross off the days and remind himself that he’s still alive. Since then, he’s gone through three calendars - three years, god, he’s twenty-one now, and still he wakes up screaming and can’t bear to cross the mirror in his bathroom, unsure of whether it’s truly _himself _staring back at him.

Which isn’t to say that Akira’s love can solve everything. Goro knows that he’s going through his own shit - it breaks him inside whenever he flinches at conflict, memories of the interrogation room resurfacing whenever things get too bad for him to rationalise his way out of them. Even now, Goro isn’t sure if Akira has told him _everything - _the smiles whenever he makes them breakfast don’t quite reach his eyes, and the way he quickly calms himself down after a nightmare makes Goro painfully aware that he isn’t letting anyone inside his head. Perhaps Akira just has to recover on his own.

Goro can’t accept that. Not when Akira’s soft eyes and gentle kisses teach him how to feel human again; the pain of feeling like he can’t reciprocate cracks his porcelain heart.

There are more obvious signs. It was strange, when Goro woke up from his month long coma, to hear that Akira was in prison; and when he got out, he seemed… _different. _He smokes now. He stays up late and clutches glasses of whiskey in his hands until they almost shatter. He doesn’t laugh like he used to.

It hurts.

But, this morning, Goro can’t think about any of that. It was another bad night, last night, with Akira staying out late, undoubtably flitting through bars and clubs, using his charming smile and city-wide connections to get into any place that served alcohol despite him most likely already being intoxicated. Goro had pretended to be asleep when he came in, stinking of booze and cigarettes, at the early hours of dawn - he’d slid into bed next to him and cried.

Goro did nothing. He’s learned that confronting Akira about his demons will only make him retreat further into himself.

Speak of the devil - quite literally, if the events that came to pass whilst he was in hospital hold weight to them - Akira is still asleep. He’s snoring loudly, like he always does in the depths of sleep after a rough night, and Goro rolls over to gently rest his hand against Akira’s hips. Even in whatever dream-world he’s in, Akira shifts closer to him, subconsciously, and Goro smiles at the simple action. 

He’s done so much for them all. Of course it would be taking a toll on him.

Goro knows that Akira only feels normal when he’s helping other people. Whether it’s training with Ryuji, or helping Makoto study for her university tests, Akira constantly puts himself on the line for the simple recognition of other people _needing him. _Goro can understand that much, at least. And he’s a good liar, too - nobody else sees the bad nights, the panic attacks, the chainsmoking and the tears on the balcony at 4am.

Silently, he slips out of bed and gets dressed. It’s still early, and Akira won’t be waking up for a good two hours, yet. He’s got things to do; he grabs his keys and lets the fresh morning air hit him, choosing to walk rather than take a taxi or the subway to one of the larger stores. It’s cool and crisp against his skin, especially his hands - he hasn’t worn gloves for a few months, now, and he’s better without them; they were just another mask.

He’s not the best chef, but he’s learned a few skills from Akira - enough, at least, for him to cook them a nice dinner together, later. Getting ingredients isn’t the hard part, it’s when he finds himself in the medicine aisle, looking at the different forms of nicotine replacement therapy, that he’s stuck for choice. Sure, he smoked a little when he was younger, but that was only ever to impress the adults around which he socialised - it was never an _addiction. _He doesn’t wake up and gasp his way to the balcony, needing to feel something like Akira does.

With the help of one of the overly-pleasant shop assistants, he ends up buying a few different methods - patches, inhalers, gum, tablets. The assistant talks to him like _he’s _the one with the addiction, and he doesn’t have it in him to correct her; she seems so pathetically fake, trying to be nice to customers so she isn’t fired by a man in a suit sitting behind a big desk, and Goro can’t help but leave a glowing review of her customer service at the front desk before he leaves.

He’s been there. He gets it.

When he opens the door to the little apartment he shares with Akira, there’s still silence resonating throughout the hallway. He peeks into the bedroom to see that Akira is still in bed, and he has to close his eyes and purse his lips to stop any tears from filtering out of his eyes - it _hurts _to see the person he loves most in such a bad state.

The clock ticks on towards 6pm, and Akira hasn’t yet got out of bed. It must be more than a bad day, since he’s only seen Akira stay in bed until evening time once before, and that fuelled a night of arguments and silence and eventually, both of them crying into each other’s arms. Goro hopes that it won’t be that way, today, as he sets about trying to cook something healthy and filling for when his boyfriend wakes up.

Just as he’s about to serve up dinner, he feels hands on his back - Akira is awake; soft, loving, burying his face into Goro’s neck and giving him light kisses across his collarbone. 

“Morning,” Akira says.

“Evening,” Goro counters.

“Maybe I should leave the chef to it,” he smiles into Goro’s shoulder, “that smells amazing.”

“It better, I followed the recipe to the letter. Go on, set the table.”

It doesn’t go amiss to Goro that Akira cracks open a bottle of red wine and puts it between the placemats and cutlery. Well, he supposes they’ll just have to take it a step at a time, and he’d be lying to himself if he said that he didn’t use alcohol as a coping mechanism, too. 

Still, it’s nice to be able to sit down and eat together; it’s even nicer to be showered in Akira’s genuine compliments about his food. It used to be that Goro couldn’t cook anything - not that he was _bad _at it, just that he had the overfamiliar anxiety of not instantly being good at something, and he always felt like he’d have to exist in Akira’s talented shadow.

Akira takes a large gulp of wine.

“Hey, thanks for this,” he says.

“It’s nothing,” Goro replies, “and I got you a present, too.”

“Ooh, a present? Lucky me.”

“You’re not going to like it.”

“Then is it really a present?” Akira smirks.

Goro can barely wait another second. He gets up from the table and roots through the reusable shopping bag for all the quit-smoking aids. Slowly, he slides them across the table to Akira, watching his immutable expression for anything that can give away how he feels.

“Do you hate it that much?” Akira asks.

“I hate that you’re killing yourself slowly because you don’t know how to cope.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologise,” Goro says, “just _try. _Try and quit, yeah?”

“I hate smoking.”

“I know you do. Nobody likes being addicted to something.”

“I… thanks, Goro. I won’t let you down.”

And that’s the end of _that _conversation. They eat together, and occasionally Goro looks up to see Akira smiling softly, a simple gesture that melts him inside.

Once they’ve finished their meal, he goes to wash up the dishes, but Akira holds his hands and leads him into the living room, instead, bringing the bottle of wine with them. Soon enough, they’re both holding large glasses, standing in front of each other with desperate, searching eyes, until Akira turns the radio on and a slow song begins to play.

He puts his glass down, and Goro follows suit, and then they’re holding each other, swaying in the haze of evening glow. Akira’s arms are lazily around Goro’s neck, and it’s a messy sort of love; they’re both coping in bad ways, but there’s nothing _bad _about this. They’re just in love, hopelessly and desperately, slow dancing in the milk-light of the first few stars.

**Author's Note:**

> This is completely self-indulgent. I'm hoping to have quit smoking by my 21st birthday next month :)
> 
> Title from 'Francis Forever' by Mitski.


End file.
